


Basil & Bergamot

by flammable_grimm_pitch



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Exes to Lovers, Multi, Post-Break Up, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Roommates, Simon joined the military, and now he's a little fucked up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26558806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammable_grimm_pitch/pseuds/flammable_grimm_pitch
Summary: Baz owns a flower shop, Penny and Shep own the tattoo parlour in the unit next door, and life is all well and good - until Simon shows up.
Relationships: Dev & Niall & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Dev/Niall (Simon Snow), Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce/Shepard, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Agatha Wellbelove, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 12
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [lest we fall into the dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9907790) by [Gingerwerk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gingerwerk/pseuds/Gingerwerk). 
  * Inspired by [Marauder Ink](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17364134) by [jennandblitz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennandblitz/pseuds/jennandblitz). 



> I'm a slut for the tattoo parlour/flower shop AU and I just couldn't not write it.

**Baz**

It’s the last day of April, so I’m enjoying the last good lie-in I’ll have until the end of August, at least. We’ve made it through two big milestones already this year – Valentine’s Day in February, and Mother’s Day in March – but wedding season begins in May, and I’ve booked myself clear through the season. 

I hear my cousin Dev’s alarm go off through the thin wall separating our bedrooms, followed by the familiar lilting voice of his boyfriend asking that he “get the feck out o’ bed and turn that shite off.” By the miracle of being assigned a roommate at uni, my cousin managed to scoop himself up a fit, ginger bloke from Cork, who he promptly dragged back to London as soon as they had shifted the tassels on their mortarboards. They’re disgustingly cute together, Dev and Niall, and I have the privilege of sharing a flat with them above my shop, _Basil & Bergamot._

After my mother passed in my first year of uni, I dropped out of school (much to my father’s horror) and decided to keep the place open in her memory; she named it after me, so it’s the least I could do. I have a single employee, a lovely girl called Agatha, who keeps me from tearing my hair out come wedding season. Niall keeps our books and handles the financials, as he’s a chartered accountant, and Dev saved my arse by taking my place as business partner and heir to his uncle’s (my father’s) wealth management firm. 

I’m still comfortably enveloped in my duvet an hour after Dev’s alarm woke me when, without knocking, my cousin throws open the door to my bedroom. He crawls onto the mattress beside me, not caring that he might wrinkle his trousers before he’s even made it to work for the day, and throws an arm over my blanket-wrapped body. 

“Baz, you’ve got to get up, mate,” he says without apology. The bastard _knows_ it’s my morning off. 

“I’m going to disembowel you if you aren’t out of my room in about 10 seconds, Dev,” I threaten, trying to glare at him through bleary eyes. 

“Niall just got a call from Aggie, says your phone must be off,” Dev explains. “She’s not feeling well this morning, so you’ll have to receive the delivery. Says she’s sorry, though.” 

_Shit._ So much for my quiet morning. 

“Fine. Thanks for passing the message along,” I say, elbowing him hard enough that he tumbles off my bed, fancy suit be damned. He knows better than to be a prat before noon on a Monday, even if he does have to wake me for a legitimate reason. “Now, sod off and do something useful with yourself.” 

“Can’t believe I still live with you,” he grumbles, pulling my door shut on his way out. He gets no sympathy from Niall, who I can hear giving him a stern telling-off in the kitchen. He’s a good sort, Niall is, even though he consorts with the likes of Dev Grimm. 

The shop doesn’t open until 10:00, but the bloke who does our deliveries is set to arrive for 8:15. The clock across the room informs me that I’ll have just enough time to shower, throw my hair in a bun, and grab a bite to eat before I need to be downstairs. Thankfully, Dev and Niall have been kind enough to leave me enough hot water for a short shower, and when I make my first appearance in the kitchen for the day, the kettle is still warm enough that I won’t have to boil it again for my tea. 

I see a few missed calls, a voicemail, and about 10 unread texts when I open my phone, and all but one are from Agatha. The one odd text out is from Penelope Bunce, who owns the shop next to mine. I technically own the whole building, which is split into two retail spaces on the ground level and two flats accessible by a shared stairwell sandwiched between the shops, and Bunce pays me rent. She and her partner Shep are ideal tenants: their rent is always on time, they are courteous enough to keep their telly and radio at an appropriate volume, and Shep – who hails from somewhere in the American Midwest – makes a killer apple pie, which he shares with us more often than not. Our businesses aren’t competitors, as we sell flowers, and they run a popular tattoo parlour. If anything, we get free advertising just by sharing a building. 

Bunce’s text is more of a courtesy than anything. She’s hired a new part-time artist – an old friend from school – and apparently they're going to be staying in their guest room until they find a place of their own. She isn’t sure how long they’ll be staying, but she assures me they will be on their best behaviour, especially if they’re using the one space that our flats share – the rooftop garden, which is set up with a few tables and chairs for the purpose of entertainment. More often than not, we just sit up there and smoke, but it’s a nice feature that most flats in London don’t have. 

I shoot Bunce a quick response, even including a cute flower emoji. She tells me that most people our age use them, so my texts to her always include at least one. 

When 8:00 rolls around, I find myself dressed, fed, and standing outside the door of my shop with keys in hand. As I work my way through the ring to find the front door key – the one with a square-shaped head featuring a purple sticker on either side – I hear the heavy thunk of boots against the pavement, and notice movement out of the corner of my right eye. Not even really paying attention, I glance up expecting to see Bunce or Shep, and instead am greeted by a broad-shouldered, golden-haired man that I haven’t seen for probably ten years. 

_Simon bloody Snow._ I almost drop my keys. 

“Baz?” My name falls from his lips in utter bewilderment. 

So that’s why Penny felt the need to text me. Simon Snow is sleeping on her sofa. I should have guessed. 

“Snow,” I greet him, disguising my own surprise with what I’m certain comes across as a sneer. “You’re Bunce’s new hire, then, are you?” 

“You…this is _your_ building?” he asks, ignoring my question completely. He never was good at multitasking, and it seems he hasn’t improved in the decade since we’ve seen each other. The golden boy has a one-track mind. 

“Last I checked,” I say with a nod. “Sorry to cut the conversation short, but I’ve got to…” I trail off, tilting my head towards the glass door of my shop. 

“Yeah, of course,” he splutters, jerking his thumb towards the door to the residential portion of the building. Snow hoists a heavy, green duffel bag – army issue – further up onto his shoulder, drawing my attention away from his eyes and onto the rest of his body. 

_Bloody hell, has he ever filled out._ His cargo khaki trousers are hideous, but they hug his thighs – fucking tree trunks, they’re so thick – close enough to tell me that he’s still a rugger. His arms are tanned, toned, and heavily inked. I wonder if he has to be careful about his biceps gaining or losing muscle mass to keep his tattoos from warping. 

I shake my head to clear any and all thoughts of Snow’s thighs or arms because I really do need to open the shop, and I _really don’t_ need to spend any more time in this life obsessing over the man before me than I already have. It took years, but before this morning, I’m proud to say that it’s been months since I last thought about Snow. Back in secondary school, and even during my brief stint in university, I couldn’t even go five minutes without some aspect of him coming to mind. 

“Good to see you, Snow,” I lie, turning back to the shop door as I fumble with my keys. _Where the fuck is the purple one?_

“Yeah,” Snow murmurs, his eyes following me until I’ve made it into the shop and out of his line of sight. I hear the door buzz when Bunce lets him into the building, and the thud of his heavy, black boots on the stairs. When I glance at the phone, I see that only two minutes have passed since I left the flat, even though it feels like it’s been ages – confirmation that Snow’s presence still fucks with my head. 

I turn on the lights, open the safe, and put the float in the till before getting to other tasks – rolling display tables out front, watering potted plants and herbs, sweeping the floors, and moving stock arrangements to the coolers in the display area. 

Gareth the delivery guy is five minutes late, but I promised Agatha a while back that I wouldn’t chew him out unless he was a full half-hour or more behind schedule. I can be a bit brash with people at times, and “there’s no need to get your knickers in a knot over a few measly minutes” (or so Agatha says). He’s brought me narcissi and ranunculus, feathery stems of astilbe and star-shaped hellebores, tulips in shades of cream, pink, purple, and orange; plus plenty of greenery and smaller bits to use as filler in bouquets and arrangements. 

By the time I’m unlocking the door and turning on the neon ‘OPEN’ sign, I’ve managed to work myself down from the strop I was in after seeing Simon. I might have some walk-ins this morning, but in all likelihood, I’ll be able to just settle in at my workstation and start on some arrangements due to be picked up tomorrow – smaller orders for birthdays and anniversaries. There are some rental pieces to put away after the funeral we did on Saturday, and I’ll need to go through phone messages and email inquiries to stay on top of upcoming orders. 

Really, there’s plenty to do to keep my mind busy and the shop in good running order. It’s mostly a matter of allowing myself to focus on work instead of replaying every second that Simon and I spent in each other’s vicinity this morning. I need to focus on my shop instead of inventing stories about what Snow might have been up to all these years, or what he’s doing right this moment, or – most concerning – what he’ll be doing in the time he’s living with Bunce, working right next door to me. 

A blessing in the form of Agatha Wellbelove arrives just after noon, exactly when I would usually join her in the shop on Mondays. I guess she took some medicine and slept in a bit, and now she’s feeling well enough to be at work. Her presence is exactly what I need to keep my mind busy. 

She hasn’t even been in the shop five minutes when she grabs me by the shoulders, looks into my eyes (right into my soul, really), and asks, “Honey, what’s wrong?” 

“Wow, I can’t get anything past you, can I?” I chuckle humourlessly. 

“Never,” she smiles. I know she’s asking as my friend, not because she likes to gossip, so I decide to tell her the truth. 

“Simon Snow just moved in with Bunce and Shep, and he’s working in their shop,” I somehow manage to say without bursting into flames. “I ran into him when I was unlocking the door, and we…talked.” Agatha is floored by this news. 

“Well,” she says once she’s taken a moment to think over her next words, “I can understand why you might be feeling flustered.” Agatha’s sweet brown eyes meet mine, and she gently takes my hands in hers. “We’ll take things one day at a time, and everything will be alright – you’ll see, Basil.” 

Not for the first time, I wish things could be easy, and I could just be in love with her. She’s gorgeous and kind and smart, and she’s been my friend for as long as I’ve known Bunce and Snow – since we were all in school together. 

But alas, she's aromantic, asexual, and just my wonderful friend, and I’m as gay as a daffodil and still not over the boy I fell in love with when I was 15.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon chastises Penny for keeping secrets, and gets a tour of the shop.

**Simon**

“So, was anyone going to tell me that Baz owns this building, or was I just supposed to figure that out myself?” I ask, glancing between Penny and Shep. 

I’ve barely made it in the door, but I know I’m not going to be able to wait until I’m settled in to ask. Based on Shep’s deer-in-the-headlights expression and the way Penny’s gaze falls to the floor, they’ve intentionally kept this fact from me. I don’t know whether or not I should be offended – it seems like a pretty damn important thing to share, if you ask me. Baz is my ex, after all, and not just any ex; we were supposed to be end game. 

“I’m going downstairs,” Shep announces to the room, begging off what he knows will be an uncomfortable discussion. “Gotta, um, check the, uh, voicemail! Downstairs. In the shop.” His excuse is awful, but I don’t blame him; this is between Penny and I. 

“Stop by Basil’s and check in on him, will you, love?” Penny requests as Shep pulls his denim jacket down from a hook beside the door. The fabric looks new, but he’s still got an assortment of buttons pinned to the front of it like he did when we first met him in America years and years ago. “And remind him and Aggie about supper.” 

“Sure,” Shep nods. He tosses me a quick wave on his way out. “Glad you made it, Simon. Make yourself at home.” 

“Thanks, mate,” I answer, my eyes never leaving Penny’s face. Her purple ombré hair is pulled into a thick bun on either side of her head – a style I’ve never seen her wear before – and she’s chosen deep burgundy lipstick and smoky eyeshadow as her look for the day. I’ve seen her septum piercing when we’ve done video chats, but I like it even more in real life. It’s all very pop punk, and it suits her. 

This is the first time we’ve seen each other in person in years, even thought it feels like it was only yesterday that she stood on the platform and waved me off as I left for recruit training. I wish that after I’d hugged her at the door a few minutes ago, we could have just plopped down onto the sofa together for a good chat, like we might have done in the past. I was right chuffed to see her today, up until I watched Baz step out of the stairwell. 

Fuck. I wish I could be more mature about all of this, but not-so-deep-down, I’m still that angry kid that grew up in care with people who didn’t give a shit about his wellbeing. _Penny’s my best friend. She’s supposed to care. She’s supposed to tell me things._

“I am _so_ sorry, Simon. I should have brought it up ages ago,” she murmurs, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. “When Shep and I were looking for space to lease for the shop, this was just so convenient. We couldn’t _not_ take it.” 

“Pen, I’m not upset that you live in a building that Baz owns,” I assure her, running a hand through my curls and giving them a sharp tug in frustration. “I’m upset that you didn’t _tell_ me that you and Shep rent space in a building Baz owns. He and I didn’t exactly end things on a great note, you know, and I’ve just gone and made an absolute numpty of myself after seeing him for the first time in a decade. I just _stared_ at him, Pen.” 

“Simon,” she sighs, “I know I’ve mucked this all up. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I hear what you’re saying – I should have told you.” 

“Yeah, it might have been nice to have a bit of a heads up,” I agree, stuffing my hands into the front pockets of my trousers. “You mentioned Aggie, too – is she working with Baz?” 

“That’s another thing I probably should have mentioned,” Penny cringes, worrying at her lip with her teeth. 

“They’re not _together,_ are they?” I ask, horrified. Penny’s expression has me assuming the worst. 

“What? No, of course not,” Penny says, choking back laughter. “Simon, you were with Baz for two years. You know he has absolutely _no_ interest in women.” 

“Things can change,” I argue, but I know she’s right. Baz made it abundantly clear that he wouldn’t touch a girl with a twenty-foot pole even if someone offered to pay him. He’s as gay as they make ‘em. 

“Not that much,” Penny says softly. “He’s still Baz. And yes, Aggie works for him full-time during the summer so he can keep up with wedding season. Big time for flowers, I’m sure you can imagine.” 

We’re both quiet for a minute as I take the time to process it all. It’s a lot. I didn’t expect the morning to go this way, so I’m a bit thrown off. We were supposed to hug and gossip and talk about this job Penny’s offered me, but that all went out the window before I even made it into the building. What am I supposed to do now – just toss my bag on the sofa and move on like nothing has happened? 

“Why don’t we walk down to the bakery and pick up some scones,” Penny suggests, breaking the awkward silence. “You’ve probably eaten already, but I know you’d never turn down a good scone.” 

“Yeah, alright,” I sigh, glancing up to meet her eyes – chocolate brown and brilliant, just as they were the day we met. She still wears those cat’s eye specs that couldn’t possibly look good on anyone else. They’re _distinctly_ Penelope. 

Penny grabs the miniature backpack that serves as her handbag, pulls the straps over her shoulders, and gestures with a bob of her head towards the door, which I’m still standing beside. Patting my back pocket to make sure I’ve got my wallet, I pull the door open and step out into the hall, purposely turning my gaze away from the identical door across the hall that I know now leads to Baz’s flat. 

“We’ll take a left when we get outside,” Penny instructs, locking the door before following me down the stairs. The jangling of her keys brings the image of meeting Baz just a few minutes ago, but I banish it with a shake of my head. 

_Don’t think about him until you have to,_ I remind myself firmly. _He’s on your list; don’t erase his name from it just because you’ve seen him now._

* * * * * 

Shep glances up from the reception desk when the shop bell dings, regarding Penny and I with a stiff smile. His expression softens when I offer him a chocolate croissant from the box I’ve brought back from the bakery; I definitely intended it as a peace offering, and the sincerity that takes the place of his previous awkwardness tells me it’s been received as such. 

“Welcome to Omaha Ink,” he says, gesturing around the foyer with his croissant-free hand. “Penny’s been freaking out ever since you agreed to come and see the place. I think she’s rearranged the furniture at least six times.” An annoyed _ahem_ behind me draws our attention. 

“Did you _really_ have to tell him that, Shepard?” Penny huffs as she pulls the scheduling book from her partner’s hands. “You couldn’t have just said,” and here, her voice drops into Shepard’s low, Midwestern accent, “‘Simon, we’re thrilled to finally be able to show you what we’ve built together in the last five years,’ and left it that?” 

“I mean, I could have,” Shepard answers sheepishly, “But what would have been the fun in that, Pen?” He ducks as the scheduling book sails past his head and strikes the wall he was just standing in front of with a sound _thwack_. 

I take in the shop’s foyer with wide eyes; it’s so _them._ The space is painted dark purple (Penny’s favourite colour), and a mixture of photos, graffiti art, and tattoo flash decorate the walls. 

The shop’s name has been stencilled and spray-painted across one wall in neon colours, presumably Shepard’s doing. Most of Shep’s work is strongly rooted in his African American heritage, but this graffiti style – for which he’s known best – is the product of a youth spent vandalizing the train cars stalled in his hometown, waiting to be loaded with corn and other cereal crops. 

The photos they’ve chosen to frame and hang here in the shop are all cityscapes, featuring locations Penny and Shep have visited together – San Francisco, Paris, New York, Dubai, and Rio, to name a few. Penny took up photography when we were at school, and her hobby seems to have paid off; these shots are beautiful, and are easily something you might find on the pages of National Geographic. 

The tattoo flash they’ve chosen to display feature some of their more basic work, and is displayed in two large poster-sized frames. Penny’s designs tend to be more illustrative in style, and are themed around her interest in magic and the occult: crystals, skulls, tarot symbols, spiders, flowers. Shep has chosen pieces that might appeal to an American crowd: dice, a saguaro cactus, eagles, stars, a shiny red apple, other patriotic symbols. 

Everything here is so distinctly _them_ that I wonder how my arrival might change things. During my time in the service, I got to see ink in a hundred different styles, and on bodies from nearly every country in the Commonwealth. I learned from artists whose tattooing practices are entirely different from what I was taught in Tokyo. I collected ink wherever I was stationed, and each piece I’ve had done has a story. Plenty of shops have taken interest in my portfolio (some of the contents of which are, unfortunately, illegal to replicate here in the UK) but there was never even a chance of me taking up anywhere but with Penny and Shep. 

Penny is telling me about some of the awards the shop has won as she shows me around, but I’m too distracted by the rest of the shop’s design to really pay attention. I’m loving the industrial style they’ve gone for with the round overhead drum lights, and the smaller Edison bulbs installed over work spaces. The red brick of the centre wall separating their shop from _Basil & Bergamot_ next door fits the theme perfectly. 

There are two tattoo stations in the main room, separated by a beautiful hand-painted Japanese folding screen. This must have been a gift from Baz, because it’s much too valuable for Penny and Shep to have bought themselves. Each station has a black vinyl bed, a tool chest for storing ink and equipment, a sink for handwashing, a bin for trash, an overhead light that can be adjusted like the ones found in an operating theatre, and a swivelling chair for the tattooist. Penny is obsessive about sterility (as any tattooist should be) so she’s chosen each piece of furniture and every cabinet with that in mind. 

There are two smaller rooms used for tattoos and piercings that require a bit more privacy (I’ll let you make a guess as to which those might be), and there’s an absolute cupboard of a room located at the back of the shop that serves as an office. A heavy-looking metal door provides access to the back alley and the fire escape, which Penny says is the designated smoking area for both staff and clients. I’m itching for a fag at this point, which Shep thankfully recognizes, so he suggests to Penny that the tour be extended out into the alley. 

Penny, who has walked out ahead of me, shoots me a warning glance over her shoulder, which tells me that we aren’t going to have our smoke alone. I haven’t had a fag since before I caught the bus this morning, so Baz is just going to have to belt up and behave himself. Shep claps a hand on my shoulder in a gesture of moral support. He toes a cinderblock between the door and its frame to keep us from being locked out, and then follows me outside. 

The lithe, willowy figure of Agatha Wellbelove crashes into me, and her arms are around my neck before I even have the opportunity to say hello to her, or get a decent look at the space around us. I cough out a surprised laugh, but she doesn’t let go until I’ve returned her hug with enthusiasm. 

“Simon Snow, _just look at you!_ ” she exclaims, setting her hands on either side of my face. She tilts my chin from side to side so that she can have a look at the rings and gauges in my ears, and she catches one of my golden-bronze curls between dainty fingers and gives it a playful tug. “You look _hot,_ Si!” 

“Thanks, Aggie. You, too,” I snort, my cheeks flaming at her blunt appraisal. “I guess we’ve both grown up a bit since we saw each other last.” 

Agatha looks exactly the same as I remember her, though she gives off an air of newly-acquired wisdom and maturity (once she stops pinching my cheeks, that is). “A bit?!” she asks, raising a perfectly sculpted brow. “You’ve got muscles for days, and your hair actually looks like you’ve done something purposeful with it.” This should probably offend me, but I shrug it off because she’s not wrong. 

It’s only been within the last few months that I’ve given a shit about how I come across to other people. Being in the army was about fitting in with those around me – wearing the same uniform, having the same haircut; no originality required. I've been out of the service for six years now, but it wasn't until recently that I remembered the world's expectation that I choose my own clothes, have my own thoughts. The first thing I did when I got home to England was put my earrings back in. I suppose that kick-started the whole ‘giving a shit again’ thing. 

I only get a single glimpse of Baz as he retreats through the back door of his own shop, leaving Agatha with the three of us. It’s probably for the best; it’s not fair for the tension between him and me to make everyone else feel awkward. 

We chat with Agatha a bit longer, and I keep the sharing of details about my own life to a minimum, because I know she’ll tell Baz everything I’ve said the moment she goes back into the flower shop. He can ask me himself, or ignore me all he likes; that’s his choice. I’ll not fuel the fire between us by giving Agatha anything to add to it. Instead, I just smoke and nod every now and then to seem like I’m paying attention. She and Penny probably both notice that I’m off in my own world, but neither comment on it – at least, not that I hear. 

When we’re back in the shop, Penny sets her hands on her hips and regards me expectantly. My shoulders go stiff with concern, because I really don’t want to talk about Agatha or Baz, but it turns out there was no need for me to get prickly. 

“So, what do you think of the place?” she inquires, her gaze intense. “Be honest, now. I know you’ve been in a thousand other shops, so don’t be afraid to tell me that we’re just a dinky little place that looks like all the others, if that’s the case.” She and Shep give me a moment to think, but I don’t need it. My mind is already made up. 

“This place is bloody brilliant, you guys,” I tell them sincerely. “I don’t know how exactly you see me fitting into the culture you’ve built, but I really am chuffed to bits that you’d want me to work with you.” 

“Wasn’t even a question,” Shep assures me, and Penny agrees. “It was you or no one.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After avoiding him for almost a week, Baz sends Simon a gift.

**Simon**

When I walk into the shop for my first orientation shift, the first thing I notice is a vase bursting with white and yellow flowers on the reception desk. Shep is behind the desk chatting on the phone with a client, but he takes a moment to point to the bouquet and then at me, indicating that I’m the lucky recipient. I find a card attached to a plastic fork sort of thing in the middle of the arrangement, and it has my name written in a neat, curling script I recognize instantly as Agatha’s. 

I’m tempted to rip the card up without reading it, to take the vase next door, make eye contact with Baz, and dump the thing out onto the floor of his shop, water and all, because I’m certain this is his doing, not Aggie’s. He and I haven’t talked since the day I arrived, and it’s been nearly a week now – so what the hell does he think he’s doing sending me flowers? 

Just in case I’m overreacting, I decide to read the card. The message is a single line, and as I suspected, the handwriting is his. 

_Congrats on the new job._  
_– Basil_

Knowing him, he’s chosen these flowers for reasons other than their beauty, so I pull out my phone and search up _“yellow white flowers six petals”_ , scroll through images, and find a match almost right away. They’re daffodils, and according to the Internet, are also known as narcissus. A flower meanings site tells me they’re associated with new beginnings. 

I’ll admit, it’s a nice gesture, and is as non-confrontational as a peace offering can get. He could have sent me an ugly ‘fuck you’ bouquet, which I’m amused to learn as I scroll through the site is a real thing. The flowers look nice here on the desk, and will get way more appreciation here than up in Penny’s flat, so I shift the vase over to the left side of the desk so whoever is sitting at the desk won’t have to reckon with a bouquet as they talk with clients standing on the other side. As I turn the vase, I spy a bit of greenery tucked into the arrangement that doesn’t look like it belongs. 

It’s a fucking olive branch. 

That does it. I tuck the note from Baz into my back pocket, step further into the shop to let Penny know that I’ll be back in a few minutes, and head next door. 

“Don’t kill him!” Penny calls after me, only half joking. 

A bell jingles when I pull the glass door open, drawing the gaze of both Baz and Agatha, who are chatting as they work on arrangements at a table towards the back of the display area. The tabletop is a bit of a mess, scattered with bits of chopped stems, leaves, and other materials whose use I can’t even begin to guess. Agatha is wielding a glue gun like she means business, but she sets it down when she sees me. 

“Hey, come on in,” she smiles, greeting me with a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome to _Basil & Bergamot,_ the one-stop shop for all your floral needs!” 

Aggie is looking lovely as always in slim jeans and a light blue button-up (if you can call it that when only half the buttons are done up), under which a lacy bralette is just barely visible. She’s always had a fantastic sense of style, which I’m sure is something she and Baz connect over. He’s got an apron on over some fancy burgundy jumper, and I’m sure his Oxfords cost more than my recent root canal. 

“Good morning to you, too,” I laugh, throwing an arm around her shoulders as easily as I did when we were teens. “How are things going in here today?” 

“Basil and I are putting together bouquets and arrangements for a wedding,” Agatha tells me, pulling me towards her worktable. Baz’s grey eyes meet mine, but his expression remains impassive. He sent flowers, so he’s waiting for me to make the next move. 

“They look awesome, Aggie,” I tell her in earnest. “Pink isn’t really my colour, but I like these little triangle plant-y things – succulents, or whatever.” I let Agatha go so she can return to her work, but she makes an excuse about needing to grab something from the back, leaving Baz and I alone. 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

I don’t know whether to kill Agatha or kiss her; she’s abandoned me with Simon, and I can’t even begin to tell what he’s thinking. Were the flowers I sent too much? Does he think I’m trying to make a move? 

“Thanks for the, uh, welcome gift,” he says, leaning a hip against my worktable. “They’re really nice.” His curls and freckled face threaten to distract me, but I won’t let them – not today. 

“You’re welcome,” I reply curtly, pinning the ribbon I’ve just wrapped around the stems of a bouquet with a pearl-headed pin. “I wasn’t sure you’d want me to come over and say it in person, so I figured, ‘I’m a florist, why not flowers?’” Snow is chewing on his lip, and I need him to stop ASAP. 

“Thought you were avoiding me,” he admits with a shrug, “But I guess that’s fair.” 

Simon was the one who broke things off between us, of course. After our trip to America with Bunce, he said I’d be better off without him, despite my insistence that he was the one and only thing I wanted in the world. He moved out of the flat he shared with Bunce and pissed off to who knows where, leaving me to pick up the pieces. So yes, it _is_ fair that I chose to avoid him for a week. 

“I…needed a few days to wrap my head around things,” I tell him, deciding that honesty is the best policy. “Bunce wasn’t particularly specific when she said a friend was coming to stay. I probably should have guessed, though. Who else could it have been but you?” 

“She didn’t tell me she was renting her flat or the shop from you,” he says, lacing his fingers into his stupid bronze curls and giving them a bit of a tug – a nervous habit he’s not grown out of, I see. “So when I saw you that morning…” 

“Neither of us was expecting it,” I finish for him. Snow huffs a laugh as though to say, _That’s an understatement._

There’s a lull in the conversation, which gives Snow a chance to look around the shop. He came in with a purpose, so he didn’t take the time to see what we have going on here. I give him an encouraging smile, which he takes as an invitation to walk around. 

“I knew you liked flowers and plants,” he muses, rubbing the thick, waxy leaf of a rubber fig between his fingers, “But I never thought you’d make a career of it. Thought you’d join Malcolm at the firm, even though you weren’t that keen on it.” 

So he _did_ think about me. I always wondered. 

“I considered it,” I concede, frowning as Snow actually presses his nose into a bucket of tulips to smell them. “Even worked for him for a summer during uni, but it, ah…wasn’t for me.” 

“I’m sure he took that well.” 

“Oh, brilliantly,” I chuckle, pleased that he’s not pretending that we’re strangers or something. He knew my father, knew that things were strained between us because I could never live up to what Malcolm wanted me to be. “The only thing that saved me was that Dev was doing a business degree, and he asked my father for an internship. Father wanted – wants – the firm to stay in the family, and Dev was the next best option after me.” 

“Cheers to Dev,” Snow says, brushing a bit of soil off on his jeans. “He stuck around here, then, did he?” 

“He and his boyfriend share my flat.” 

“Fuck off.” He pokes at some air plants hanging from dried urchin shells, suspended on fishing wire like a group of jellyfish out of water. 

“No, really,” I grin. “Couldn’t be rid of the guy if I killed him, Dev. Said he didn’t want me to be alone, brooding over my plants, so he moved in once he’d finished school, and brought his bloke with him.” 

Snow’s expression has gone dark, I realize too late, at my mention of being alone. 

“Don’t make that face,” I insist, setting the bouquet I’ve been fiddling with in a small vase to keep it moist. “That wasn’t meant to be a judgement or anything.” 

“I know,” he sighs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Doesn’t change the fact that I was a right prick for leaving you like that.” 

“I lived,” I tell him after a moment of silence. “And you did, too, I see.” 

Well, perhaps ‘lived’ is a bit of an exaggeration – ‘survived’ is more accurate, at least for me. 

I was a bloody mess after Simon left; spent a full month moping around my flat, refusing to see anyone. Agatha, Bunce, and Dev left me a thousand messages, made efforts to bring me food or get me out of my flat, but I wouldn’t even open the door. In the end, Dev went to my father, who showed up and demanded the landlord conduct a wellness check. The place was in a right state, of course, as was I. 

But no one told me I was being a baby. No one said, “Just get over it, mate.” Dev got me in the shower, washed me hair for me – helped me shave for the first time in weeks. Bunce and Wellbelove did the dishes and laundry that had been piling up, threw out the mountain of takeaway boxes, washed my bed linens so I might have a good night’s sleep beneath clean sheets. My stepmother and sister went down to the shops and restocked my fridge, filled my icebox with individually packaged meals they’d prepared for me. 

“Just pop one in the microwave,” Daphne had instructed. “I’ll be by again in a few days to make sure you’re eating.” 

I’d lost weight I couldn’t afford to lose, and it worried her, so she insisted on taking me to see a doctor, who then referred me to a psychologist and a grief counsellor. Daphne personally drove me to every appointment, sat in the waiting room for an hour each time, and had tea waiting for me when I was finished. She paid for my sessions, even when all I did was sit there and stare blankly at the therapist. 

It took a village to get me through our break-up. 

Fact: Snow is back for the foreseeable future. I know without a doubt that I can trust my friends and family to keep me from falling back into the darkness that consumed me all those years ago. 

Snow had friends then, too, but lacked the comprehensive social and financial support system that I had access to. He broke up with me, but I’m certain it killed him to do it. He was hurting, too. Perhaps it’s too personal of me to ask, but I can’t help myself… 

“What did you do, after you left?” I inquire gently. “Where did you go?” 

“That’s a long story,” he says with a grimace. “And I really should be getting back to the shop – Penny and Shep have to show me around, help me get my station set up so I can start taking customers by the end of this week.” 

“Yes, of course,” I acknowledge, receding into my shell of propriety and impassivity. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and I’m not owed his life story, no matter what we used to be to each other. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel disappointed. I thought…for a moment there, it felt like he might be opening up to me. 

“We could talk later, though, after work?” he offers. “Penny says there’s tables up on the roof. You could invite Aggie, if you don’t want us to be alone.” 

“Y-yeah, okay,” I stammer, nodding robotically. His suggestion has taken me by surprise. What am I supposed to say? “Six o’clock? We could order takeaway.” 

“Still can’t cook, Pitch?” he goads, maintaining eye contact as he walks backward in the direction of the door. He isn’t smiling exactly, but his eyes glitter with mirth as he slides a cigarette from the carton in his pocket and tucks it between his lips. 

“I resent that insinuation,” I inform him loudly, but my voice is drowned out by the jangle of the doorbell that rings when he presses his back against the glass door. One corner of his mouth is curved upward in a crooked smile. 

“Six o’clock,” he says, tapping on the back of his wrist, and then he’s gone. 

* * * * * 

**Simon**

Penny and I don’t talk about my discussion with Baz until well into the afternoon. When I returned to the shop this morning, she greeted me with raised eyebrows, and I nodded; that’s as far as we got. Now that we’ve spent hours running through shop policies and looked through every drawer and cupboard in the place, I’ve had time to process, and I’m willing to talk. 

“So, Baz _was_ avoiding me,” I begin, wheeling myself towards the bed at my station. “Said he needed some time.” 

“That sounds fair,” Penny hums, eyeing me cautiously. She’s laid back on the tattoo bed, which is currently adjusted to be a reclining chair. Her skirt is hitched up, exposing her freshly shaved thigh to which I’m about to apply a purple tattoo stencil. 

“And _apparently_ ,” I continue, “You didn’t tell him that I was coming to work here. Any reason for that?” I keep my tone light, but she knows in an instant that I’m annoyed by this fact. 

“Simon, I told you I was sorry,” she reminds me, “And that I’m fully aware that I didn’t go about this the right way. I thought telling you about Baz would scare you off, and I thought telling Baz about you would make things awkward.” 

Penny watches as I peel the transfer paper away from her skin, leaving the imprint of the design I’ve drawn for her – a curvaceous, nude woman whose arms extend upwards, transforming into the branches of a tree, created from a single intricate, twisting line. I modelled it off a bit of art from a poetry book she loves. 

“You’re right, I need to move past this,” I agree with her, standing up from my seat to get a better look at the placement of the stencil. “You’ve apologized, and it’s not fair of me to keep bringing it up. I know you care about us both, and that you were just doing the best you could.” 

“I love you,” she says in earnest, giving my arm a squeeze. “Both of you.” Penny pins her skirt up with a safety pin to keep the fabric from smudging the stencil ink before making her way across the room towards the full-length mirror. She plants her foot on the ground and twists her leg this way and that, just to make sure she likes the placement. Once I ink it into her skin, of course, it can’t be moved. 

“Looks great, Si,” she exclaims happily. “This is exactly how I imagined it.” 

“And you promise Shep won’t be offended that you’ve asked me to do this instead of him?” I ask for confirmation. The last thing I need is to put a strain on my best friend’s relationship. 

“Pinky promise!” Shep calls from the front desk, where he’s sorting out a boxful of body jewellery that was delivered before lunch. “She prefers your style to mine when it comes to her own ink. I’ve only done one tattoo for her in all the time we’ve been together, you know.” In response, Penny holds out her left arm and bares her wrist, where Shep’s name is inked in a bold graffiti style. 

“We didn’t do rings,” she says by way of explanation. “He did mine, and I did his.” I do recall seeing some curly script on Shep’s wrist. Penny _would_ insist on something like this instead of the traditional diamond ring; she’s always been opposed to heteropatriarchal (I think that’s the word) marriage rituals. She and Baz used to talk about that kind of thing, back when…you know. 

“Okay, let’s get going on this, shall we?” I suggest, checking the clock on the wall. “I’ve got plans at six, and I want to make sure I have time to shower and stuff.” 

“Plans?” Penny inquires, adjusting the chair back of the tattoo bed before takes her seat. We’re going to be here a while, so it’s important that she be comfortable. 

“Yeah. Uh, Baz and I are doing dinner, just to catch up.” Penny’s eyes widen behind her glasses, and she smacks my arm _hard_ with the hand bearing the heirloom amethyst ring she’s had as long as I’ve known her. 

“Why didn’t you mention this earlier?” she asks, incredulous. “Simon Snow, you really _are_ a menace.” 

That last bit I try to pretend she didn’t say, because it’s what Baz used tell me whenever he was annoyed yet slightly amused by something I’d done. _You’re a complete menace, but I love you, Snow._

“Fuckin’ _ow,_ Pen,” I complain, pulling up my shirtsleeve to see if her ring has left a welt on my skin. “Sorry I didn’t mention it earlier – I was a little preoccupied by all the policies you’ve shoved down my throat today.” 

“Bad excuse,” she grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now let’s get this tattoo going so you can get to dinner on time – god knows you and Baz need to talk some things over.” 

That, Penny, is the understatement of the century.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art Penny's tattoo is based on is by Rupi Kaur, featured on p. 153 of her book _milk and honey._ Check it out on Kaur's Instagram --> https://www.instagram.com/p/B7XQpdIBLOg/

**Author's Note:**

> Please check out the "inspired by" section at the top of the page and see the two incredible works that have inspired me to write this Snowbaz fic.


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